Bought the Farm Read online

  Bought the Farm

  Pineville Gazette Mystery #1

  Wendy Meadows

  Copyright © 2018 by Wendy Meadows

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thanks for reading

  Be the First to Know

  About the Author

  Also by Wendy Meadows

  Chapter 1

  The year was 1943. The comforting sounds of Harry James and his Orchestra floated out of a Model 40-140T Philco Radio, drifting down onto a used Model 03 Hektowriter typewriter. The typewriter sat on a messy desk that Mary Holland found acceptable; after all, the desk of a newspaper editor should never appear organized, at least not in her eyes. Running a newspaper was messy work, and a woman couldn’t expect to keep her hands clean, especially with the country at war. Stories had to be written, facts had to be dished out, headlines had to be made, and papers had to be sold—because, as Mary just now told her friend Betty, while the men were away fighting in the war, it was up to the women to keep America sailing along on smooth seas.

  “Isn’t that right?” Mary asked in a tough editor’s voice that, well, sounded just a little cheesy.

  Betty Mavery, a nervous, high-strung, paranoid woman who believed the entire world was out to get her, bobbed her head up and down as fast as she could. “Right, Mary, we women have to keep matters organized for our men.”

  Mary grinned. She had known Betty since they were small girls and loved the woman like a sister. Sure, there were times when Betty’s strange nature became a bit too much to handle, but so what? A friend was a friend no matter how kooky they were, and Betty Mavery wasn’t too far from being paid a visit from a few men wearing white coats.

  “Right,” Mary agreed, sitting down in a rickety wooden chair that creaked.

  Betty always thought Mary resembled the actress Judy Garland. Her friend had a few years on the actress, but that didn’t matter. Mary was a gorgeous woman with eyes that could melt a man with just one look and a smile more dazzling than a rare diamond. Betty, on the other hand, was broomstick-thin and had a sharp nose and a thorny face sitting under straw-like black hair, hair that was not smooth and flowy like Mary’s soft brown locks.

  “While the men are away, the girls can’t play,” Betty said, bobbing her head again and debating on whether to sit down or remain standing. She decided to remain standing. Even though she felt somewhat safe in the small, cramped office of Mr. Holland, Mary’s husband, who was currently serving in the Air Force as a pilot, she never felt comfortable enough to sit down and prop up her feet. Instead, she looked around the office, examined the cramped bookshelf, the wooden filing cabinet stuffed with files, the two brown chairs, and the white sofa sitting under a window covered over with green drapes, and tried to relax. Relaxing, however, wasn’t part of Betty’s nature.

  “William is working on Farmer Griffith’s story,” Betty said. She held up a pad of paper and a pencil and read off a note she had made. “William said Farmer Griffith believes the fire that destroyed his barn was the result of—”

  “A few kids using his barn as a clubhouse,” Mary finished, brushing a few wrinkles out of the blue and white-striped dress she’d chosen to wear for the day. “The kids accidentally knocked over a candle and the candle caught some hay on fire and whoosh!” Mary threw her hands up into the air. “Farmer Griffith’s barn goes up in blazes. I drove out to his farm earlier and talked to him.”

  “Is he mad?” Betty asked in a nervous voice.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Mary asked. Betty nodded once again, and Mary fought back a grin. The green dress her friend was wearing made her look like a string bean who couldn’t stand still. “How is Millie coming along with the piece on the school play?”

  Betty quickly scanned her notes. “I don’t know,” she said with wide, terror-stricken eyes. “Oh my, I forgot to ask her. I’ll go find out right now!” Betty spun away from the desk and charged for the office door. Unfortunately, she didn’t get far.

  “Betty!” Mary cried as her friend tripped over her feet and dived head-first into the bookshelf sitting beside the office door. The bookshelf toppled over and landed on Betty, raining books down onto her head. “Oh, Betty.” Mary began laughing and ran over to her friend and began brushing books off her. “Are you okay?”

  Betty looked up at Mary with a confused expression that made Mary laugh even harder. “Now how did this happen?” she asked.

  “Oh, Betty,” Mary said in a loving voice, pulling her friend up out of the wreckage of books. “You poor dear.” Mary brushed her off and opened the office door. “It’s lunch, Betty. Why don’t you relax, walk down to the diner, and get yourself a piece of that apple pie you love so much.”

  “I need to ask Millie how the school play is—”

  Mary gently grabbed Betty’s shoulders. “Apple pie first and Millie last.” She smiled as she spun Betty around and sent her on her way. “Poor dear.” She laughed again and began cleaning up the mess. As she did, a man wearing a dark gray suit stuck his head into the office. Mary looked up at him. “Yes, can I help you?” she asked.

  The man stared down at Mary with eyes that sent chills down her spine. “Are you Mary Holland?” he asked, removing his fedora to reveal dark black hair above a stone face.

  “Yes, I’m Mary Holland,” Mary answered, standing up. “How can I help you…Mr.…”

  “Agent Green. Agent Vince Green with the FBI.” Agent Green flashed his identification in Mary’s face and put it away before she had a chance to examine it.

  “Okay, Mr. Green,” Mary said, throwing on her professional journalist voice, “how can I help you?”

  Agent Green listened as the Mills Brothers began singing on the radio. He didn’t like music. “There was a fire late Monday evening.”

  “That’s right,” Mary said, folding her arms. “Farmer Griffith’s barn burned down.”

  Agent Green reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a pack of Lucky Strikes. He fished out a cigarette, stuffed the end into his mouth, and pulled out a pack of matches from his pants pocket. “Farmer Griffith is dead,” he said, lighting the cigarette. “He was found two hours ago.”

  Mary stared at Agent Green, barely able to believe her ears. “I spoke to Farmer Griffith just this morning,” she said in a shocked voice.

  Agent Green took a drag of his cigarette. “The man was murdered, Mrs. Holland,” he said. He methodically placed the pack of Lucky Strikes back into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “This note was found in the man’s right pocket.” Agent Green handed Mary the note.

  Mary walked over to her husband’s desk and turned off the radio. Then she sat down and read the note: “Mary, the kids are in danger. Help them.”

  Mary looked up at Agent Green, who walked over to one of the brown chairs and sat. He took a drag from his cigarette and waited for Mary to speak. Mary lowered her eyes and read the note again. It had been written by a man who knew he was about to die. “Oh my,” she whisp
ered. “John, you would have to be away from your wife right now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Any idea who might have killed Farmer Griffith?” Agent Green asked Mary.

  “Who would want to kill that sweet man?” Mary snapped, upset at the news that a nice old man who rarely lost his temper was now dead. “Farmer Griffith was one of the kindest men you could ever hope to meet. Sure, he got a little upset when his barn burned down, but who wouldn’t? Why,” Mary exclaimed, “he wasn’t even going to make the parents of the boys responsible for the fire pay to have his barn rebuilt!”

  Agent Green stared at Mary and worked on his Lucky Strike. “Farmer Griffith was a well-liked citizen, then?”

  “Every single person in Pineville, Tennessee adored the man,” Mary confirmed in a sad voice. “Barney Griffith was married to Bethany Griffith for over fifty years. When Mrs. Griffith died two years ago, Farmer Griffith continued on the best way he knew how. He kept that warm smile of his intact and never let a frown touch his face.” Mary raised her eyes and looked at the FBI agent. “Agent Green, no one from Pineville killed Farmer Griffith, and that’s a fact.”

  “A man can have hidden enemies, Mrs. Holland.”

  “Not Farmer Griffith,” Mary insisted.

  Agent Green decided to focus on the note that was found on Farmer Griffith. “Why would Farmer Griffith call you out, Mrs. Holland?”

  Mary began to study on the question but then her curious mind—which oftentimes got her into deep trouble—began investigating a different question. “Say, how did you become involved in Farmer Griffith’s death?” she asked Agent Green. “Sheriff Mables wouldn’t have called the Suits over the death of a kindly old man.” Her eyes narrowed. “No, something more is at stake here…but what?”

  Agent Green stood up and walked over to the wooden desk. He shoved his cigarette down into a metal ashtray sitting next to the radio and gave Mary a serious, stern eye. “Mrs. Holland, let me make something very clear to you right here and right now. I’m here because I need answers. If you try and stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong you’ll end up in a very deep hole filled with more trouble than you can handle.”

  “How dare you threaten me! Get out of my office!” Mary exploded. She wasn’t the type of woman to back down from a fight. Of course, her husband always claimed her tendency to battle a raging bull was going to be the end of her, but so what? Mary Holland wasn’t a coward or a scaredy-cat, she was a fighter. Sure, she had a soft, sentimental side to her—and sure, Mary had to admit, she still cried at weddings—but when it came to a fight, she was ready to go toe-to-toe with whoever was issuing the threat.

  Agent Green didn’t flinch. He was hard as stone and wasn’t worried about a small-town woman who was taking her husband’s place at the newspaper while the man was away flying dangerous missions over Europe. Before the war, Mary Holland was a simple housewife who wrote community pieces for the Pineville Gazette. Now the woman was acting as if she were the top writer for the Cleveland Press.

  “Why did Farmer Griffith name you out?” he asked Mary in a demanding voice. “Mrs. Holland, don’t make this difficult on yourself.”

  “Why don’t you go ask J. Edgar Hoover?” Mary fired back. “After all, he’s the one who formed you Suits eight years ago, right? He’s the guy with all the answers, right?” Mary stood her ground. “Personally, I think the guy is a rotten skunk, and so are his little puppets on a string. Now get out of my office.”

  It was clear to Agent Green that he was now staring at a brick wall. “Mrs. Holland, we’re the good guys,” he said.

  “And frogs change into charming princes,” Mary retorted. She stood up and pointed at the office door.

  Agent Green stared at Mary a second longer and then decided to leave. He walked to the office door and then turned around. “Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Nancy Drew.”

  “I’m not an eighteen-year-old fictional sleuth, Agent Green. I’m the wife of John Holland,” Mary stated in a proud voice. “Now, get out!”

  Agent Green shook his head. He had expected to find a simple, weak-minded, domesticated housewife who would easily bend to his demands. Instead, he encountered a hardheaded bull that, he feared, would become problematic for his mission. “Mrs. Holland, remember my words and take them seriously,” Agent Green told Mary before he slithered out of her office.

  Mary ran to the office door and slammed it closed. “We’ll see who takes who seriously,” she said. She ran back to the desk and snatched up the 1931 Ericsson model telephone. “Hello, Heather, this is Mary down at the paper. Get me Sheriff Mables, please…What?…Oh…go easy on the salt and add a tad more sugar…You’re welcome.” Mary waited for Heather Norton, the town’s gossip and telephone operator, to track down Sheriff Mables for her.

  While Mary waited, Agent Green exited the brick building that was home to the Pineville Gazette, glanced up at a bright blue sky holding a blinding sun, and then pulled out his pack of Lucky Strikes. He casually lit another cigarette and allowed his eyes to float around and study the main street of Pineville. He spotted a black 1938 Buick Special parked across the street in front of the Family Plate Diner; the diner advertised a smiling fifteen-cent hamburger wearing a black and red paper hat standing next to a plate of smiling french fries. Harry’s Hardware Store sat to the right of the diner; the front window was crammed full of hammers, paint buckets, and wrenches. Fashionable Fashions stood to the left of the diner, sitting in a wooden building holding pretty dresses in a nicely decorated display window. Beside the dress shop stood a bakery throwing out delicious smells of cakes and pies and breads into the air. Agent Green had to admit that Pineville was a nice-looking town. The sidewalks were clean and well kept, the trees lining the street were trimmed, and the buildings were all cared for with loving hands.

  But underneath the beauty and cozy atmosphere lurked an unseen enemy. “I’ll find you,” Agent Green said as he watched a 1940 Chevy truck cruise by with a bed full of hay.

  Agent Green took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. He looked to his left and then to his right and began studying the people coming and going, walking in one store or another, going here or there, talking and waving to one another like old friends. All the women he spotted were dressed in knee-length dresses due to the fabric rations. The dresses were handmade, designed with care, and very decent. Every woman he spotted wore a pair of short gloves, mostly white, but some were blue or gray, along with cloche hats. The men he saw wore work clothes or nice business suits topped with fedoras. Not one single person looked like a deadly spy, but a spy wouldn’t be dressed in a black overcoat wearing a German hat, now would he…or she, Agent Green told himself. No, a spy would blend in with the local population in dress and speech.

  “I’ll think better on a full stomach,” Agent Green said. He crossed the street and walked into the diner. The air smelled of coffee, hamburgers, and meatloaf. “Yes, I’ll think better on a full stomach.”

  Heather came back to Mary with an apologetic voice. “Sorry, hon, the sheriff isn’t in his office. Susie said he’s out at Farmer Griffith’s farm.”

  “The farm, huh?” Mary said and began tapping a pen against the typewriter sitting on the desk. “Okay, thanks, Heather.”

  “Say, hon,” Heather said. Then, changing her voice from apologetic to downright nosy, she asked, “What’s your nose sniffing at? I’ve known you since we were both old enough to make mud pies. I know how that mind of yours thinks. If you’re after Sheriff Mables, that tells me you’re sniffing at something very interesting.”

  “I’m not really sure yet,” Mary told her. She stopped tapping the pen. “Heather, honey, have you noticed any strangers in town?” she asked in a careful voice.

  “Oh, a stranger,” Heather said in a delicious voice that was anxious to cover the conversation with gossip-frosting.

  Mary sighed. She should have her head examined for asking the town gossip about seeing any strangers around town. “Forget I aske
d,” she told Heather.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Heather cornered Mary. She changed her voice into that of a woman preparing to take down notes for a new recipe. “Now, what does this stranger look like, hon?”

  “Heather,” Mary fussed, “I only asked if you have seen any strangers in town. Please don’t turn my question into a spectacle.”

  “Okay, okay,” Heather said in a defensive voice, “no need to chew my nose off.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mary apologized. The last thing in the world she wanted—or needed—to do was upset the town gossip. “Give me a ring if you spot anyone suspicious, okay?”

  “My gut thinks you know more than you’re telling your old friend,” Heather said, and Mary could hear the grin in her voice. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, you just wait and see. From this moment forward, my eyes are on duty, hon.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. She imagined Heather sneaking around town like a spy, dressed in a black overcoat, slipping into one phone booth or another and making secret calls, and then rushing off to the beauty salon to fill the ears of her fellow gossipers with scrumptious news—news void of truth, but news nonetheless. “Thanks, Heather.”

  Mary put down the phone, walked her eyes around the office, and then decided to ride out to Farmer Griffith’s farm and talk to Sheriff Mables. She grabbed her purse, rushed to the office door, and bumped right into poor Betty, who just happened to be holding a piece of blueberry pie she had brought Mary from the diner. “Oh…Betty,” Mary cried.

  Betty stumbled backward, tripped over her feet, and fell straight back onto her butt. Her hands flew up in the air and released the piece of blueberry pie, which came straight down on Betty’s head. “Oh dear,” Betty moaned, sitting like a scarecrow released from his stick pole.